


Change

by SweetAvidyaJones



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5422310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetAvidyaJones/pseuds/SweetAvidyaJones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Kataang Week on Tumblr. Basically plotless smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change

_Katara,_

_I keep trying to start this letter.  I want to tell you about watching the sunrise or how tranquil it is that early in the day.  All I can think about is how much I want to be home._

_The Fire Nation Capitol is beautiful in the morning, but so is my wife.  Having some quiet is peaceful, but I miss the way our son laughs when I pretend to bite his fingers.  You two are the best part of my life._

_I got your letter. I miss you so much._

_There’s an open forum with Zuko’s magistrates this afternoon.  Tomorrow morning I’m heading home.  I’m not planning on stopping anywhere on the way, so I’ll see you soon._

_All my love,  
Aang_

Katara sat in bed. It was late and the Southern Air Temple was quiet, the bedroom lit with lamps. Bumi lay nestled beside her, sleeping. His thumb was in his mouth, which hung open, graceless and slack. Though she had never seen Sokka this young, in these moments her son reminded her of her brother. There was something about the way he moved and smiled that felt like her family. She wondered whether Aang ever felt the same, if there was something in Bumi that called out to him.  If there was, it must have been in a way he couldn’t quite understand, like an echo from the other side of a valley. She wondered and then tried not to wonder.

Feeling restless, she decided she wanted the open space of the empty bed.  She rolled up Aang’s letter and set it aside as she rose, then stooped to gather Bumi up in her arms.  More often than not, he slept with them and had since he was born. The crib in the corner was mostly reserved for nights when they wanted the bed to themselves.  The delicate precision needed to carry water translated well to moving a sleeping infant.  They usually managed to move him without waking him.

Aang had been away for two weeks, the longest she could remember ever having been apart from him.  First he was in Omashu for the unveiling of Bumi’s memorial. When he wrote, he told her his old friend would have found the whole thing “ _hilarious_ ”. “ _It doesn’t quite capture his spirit_ ,“ he pointed out. ” _There are no rockslides involved_ ”.  He joined Toph in Gaoling after, and they made surprise appearances at Earth Rumble 22.  “ _The organizers begged me to use the Avatar State to defeat The Blind Bandit, but I had to weigh their sense of drama against the risk of being killed_.”

From there, he continued on to the Fire Nation.  His main purpose for this stop was making the annual pilgrimage to visit the Sun Warriors with Zuko.  The secondary reason was a meeting with the Capitol Historical Society.  Of this, Aang had surprisingly little to say.  Katara suspected the experience was more frustrating than anticipated.        

She would have gone along for the entire trip.  She intended to, when Aang planned it.  They resumed their normal traveling schedule as soon as she recovered from Bumi’s birth. At this point, taking extended trips with a baby was nothing new.   One of them was usually carrying him in a sling, anyway. From a logistical standpoint, having him along didn’t change much.

However, the three of them had only just returned from a visit to the Northern Water Tribe.  A trip through the Earth Kingdom, then the Fire Nation, sounded exhausting.  Bumi was cutting teeth; he had molars coming in, and he was fussy.  The thought of throwing an irritable baby into the mix struck her as less than appealing.  It was a relief when she finally admitted she would rather just stay home.  Aang understood, but he was disappointed. This didn’t surprise her.  He took more unapologetic pride in Bumi than anything she’d ever seen.  This was the same man who downplayed his role in ending one hundred years of global conflict.  He seized on even the barest excuse to show off their son.     

It wasn’t until he was packing and reviewing his itinerary that it struck them how long they would be apart.  This particular trip shouldn’t have worried her.  If something did happen, he would be with Toph in the Earth Kingdom, then Zuko in the Fire Nation.  Realistically, she had little cause for concern.  Even so, it was hard not to worry, and his letters were a comfort.  

Katara laid Bumi in his crib, though she knew this arrangement was temporary. She was still nursing him.  He’d recently begun to wean himself, but it was the only way she could reliably get him back to sleep when he was fussy in the middle of the night. Aang’s absence was wearing on him, too.  He had been nearly inconsolable when he woke the night before. Bumi was almost two.  He was too young to understand his father was much more than a pair of strong arms and laughing gray eyes.  Still, she could tell he missed him.  She ran her fingers through his soft, dark hair before turning away to go back to bed.  Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror stopped her.  

The mirror - a heavy, full length thing - was the only piece of furniture from the Fire Nation in their room.  It was also the most elaborate, with a gold painted frame and faceted glass stones in the corners.  Though rather out of place in their spartan quarters, there was a sense of novelty about it.  Katara had only ever seen small mirrors in her childhood.  They were carried for signaling and starting fires.  This one was useful, too, just in different ways.  She’d recently moved it and sometimes caught Aang watching their reflections when they were in bed.

It was not her first time standing in front of it in her underwear.  There was usually not this much scrutiny involved.  If she squinted hard enough, she could almost see herself as she’d been just a few years ago.  Before Bumi, before pregnancy altered the landscape of her body.  She was familiar with what bodies looked like after childbirth.  Her experience doing postpartum work exposed any possible surprises.  Being a healer helped her fare better than average.  She was able to ease the pain of her pelvis shifting.  There were stretch marks on her abdomen and her breasts but not many.  It was still hard to accept that she looked different now.  Returning to sparring and hand to hand training got her back into shape quickly.  Even so, there was a softness to her curves that had not been there before.

Aang never remarked on any of this directly and she wondered how much of it was even obvious. He never stopped telling her she was beautiful, even when she was pregnant. His earnestness made it almost impossible to believe otherwise. Almost. She permitted herself another moment of critical inspection, eyes tight and narrow. After turning side to side to examine her profile, she finally returned to bed.    

x

His glider snapping shut wakes her.

That sound only ever announces him so it never startles her.  Katara draws in a breath through her nose.  Aang is a dark shape outlined in moonlight on the balcony.  She watches him cross the room to peer down into Bumi’s crib. With a sleepy sigh, she closes her eyes again.

He doesn’t speak, just undresses in the darkness.  The only sound is the rustle of him pulling off his robes.  She hovers on the edge of sleep and isn’t sure how long it is before he pulls back the covers to climb into bed with her.  He shifts onto his side with a weary grunt and slides his arm across her waist.  Their legs tangle together beneath the sheets as she rolls to face him. Anyone else would have brought the cool night air into bed with them, but Aang is always warm.  She moves closer to him, breathes in the familiar scent of his windblown skin.

“You’re home,” she mumbles. His embrace tightens when she drapes her arm across him.

“I’m home,” he affirms, his voice low.  He drags his fingertips across her back.  Katara scoots closer and lays her hand on his cheek.

She freezes just before their lips make contact, her hand pressed against his face.  There is coarse hair beneath her fingers. She pulls away and sits up as he lights the lamp on her side of the bed with a gesture.

Blinking against the sudden harshness of the light, she stares at him.  Aang is on his side, propped up on his elbow.  The familiar line of his jaw is darkened with short hair.  She opens her mouth but doesn’t say anything before she closes it again.  He grimaces.

“You hate it,” he guesses, sounding resigned.

“No, I’m just - ” she blinks, “I’m just surprised.”

His cheeks are pink and he gives half a shrug before running his hand across his head.  

“Sokka’s looks good.  And I thought - I thought it might make me look a little older?  Maybe make people take me a little more seriously? I don’t know.”  

She bites her lower lip against a smile at this and he deflates, rolling his eyes.

“Does it look that bad?” he pouts.  

Her reply is quick. “No, no,” she says, laying down beside him again.  Tucking her arm beneath the pillow, under her head, she studies his face.  Index finger extended, she reaches over and gives his chin a gentle push.  Aang turns his head so she can see his profile, face still tense with nervousness.  The hair is still short, but judging by the length she wonders if he decided to start growing it out before he even left. It brings a sense of strength to his otherwise graceful bone structure and she decides it suits him. Still silent, she takes a moment to regard him, to admire the genetic legacy of the Air Nomads. It is a ritual she’s been observing time and time again, ever since she first saw him naked.

“Hmm.”

He looks into her eyes again and she affects a great sigh, forcing herself to frown.  

“I mean, this is - it’s a really big problem.”

Brows knit, he leans back into the pillows, his arm resting across his middle.  His confusion is exposed by the tilt of his head.

“What?” he asks.

With a theatrical scoff of irritation, she gestures toward the door that opens onto the balcony. Her voice is a hiss full of pretended urgency.

“My _husband_ is going to be home any time now,” she replies.  A grin breaks across his face but she continues, “and if he finds some strange _man_ in our bed he’s going to - ”

He doesn’t let her finish, rolling her onto her back and descending on her with a series of quick kisses.  His relief is evident in his smile and she giggles against his lips, circling his neck with her arms.   She closes her eyes as he kisses her lower lip, then her chin.  

“You put lavender oil on your last letter, didn’t you?” His lips brush her skin and she fights down a smirk as best she can without opening her eyes.  He sees anyway and chuckles, burying his face in her neck.  

“Why would you do that to me?” he murmurs, and the words fan out warm against her skin.  The only response she gives is a low laugh, though that is enough. “When people ask me about the most wicked spirit I’ve ever met, I’m going to tell them it’s my wife.”

She laughs again and opens her eyes.  There is more than amusement in her expression when she smiles up at him.  She bends her knees, thighs on his bare hips, his weight pressing her into the bed.      

“You know I only embody benevolent spirits,” she replies. He ignores this defense, since he has come prepared with evidence.

“I left that letter on the bed all day and when I went to sleep that night it smelled like you’d been there.”

She reaches up and runs her fingertips along his scalp, against the stubble on his head.

“And it seems you left the Fire Nation in such a hurry the next morning you forgot to shave.“

He arches an eyebrow, "I didn’t forget, I just had more important things on my mind.”

“Well, I’d say my plan worked, then,” she teases.  She drags her fingers down the back of his head to his neck.  Closing her eyes, she pulls him down toward her.  

Their kisses are unhurried and lingering. Cocooned in his warmth, lying under him and in his arms, Katara runs her fingertips down the knobs of his spine and over the roughness of his scar.  She slides her arms around him and a contented sigh hums in his throat. When he pulls away, a small smile spreads across her face. Aang bumps her nose with his.

"I love you,” he says, his eyes still closed.

“I love you, too,” she whispers back, and squeezes her thighs a little tighter against him.  He opens his eyes to look down into hers. With appreciative slowness, she smooths her palms down the hair on his jaw.  He smirks.

“You like it,” he says, his voice still soft and low.  There is playful triumph in his tone.

“I _really_ like it,” is her answer, granting his victory.  Surprise brightens his smile.

“ _Really_?” he echoes, mimicking her emphasis with obvious pleasure.  “And here I was worrying you might kick me out of bed to shave it off.”

“I like you with hair,” she points out.  To underscore the point, she drags her hand down, across his chest and his abdomen.  His smile falters when she catches the sparse hair below his navel between her fingers and his throat bobs with a rough swallow.  Shy heat colors her face and she withdraws her hand, delaying the moment they both know is coming.    

Their lips meet again and this time there is no coy reservation.  Undisguised yearning deepens their kiss and Aang slides his tongue against hers.  His touch is eager, but tempered by cautiousness after their time apart.  She can feel the beginnings of his anticipation stir against her as he gives her breast a gentle squeeze, trails his fingertips down her side, across her hip.  There is a reverent exploration in his caress. He roams along her curves with a lingering attention that clings to her skin. He marks her with goosebumps, stains her with inky pinpricks of need. It sinks into her, swirling into a cloud of desire that suffocates whatever traces of dignity she has left. When he cups his hand between her legs, tracing her through her underwear, she draws in a sharp breath through her nose.  Her nails dig into his ribs and she rolls her hips toward him, pushing back against his palm.  Fingertips slipping just beneath the edges of her underwear, he teases along the brink of her heat.  A gasp tilts her head back and breaks their kiss when he at last drags his finger under the fabric.  He nudges her jaw with his nose and presses his lips to her throat when she turns her head to the side.      

“I’ve been lonely without you at night,” Aang purrs in her ear.  The vulnerability of the confession seeps through his sensuous undertone.  She splays her fingers on his back, holding him close to her in reassurance.  

At the next coaxing brush of his fingers, Katara twists her hips to meet him with an impatient moan.  He catches it in another kiss, muffling it, then draws her lower lip into his soft, generous mouth.  Though she is doing her best to be quiet, the curling laps of desire are hot and demanding between her legs.  An ache surges inside her, so deep it moves up, toward her abdomen.  It feels like she could die from it. As if her desire could consume her completely, fill her lungs and seep into her heart. Like water soaking into sand.  

When his fingers finally ease into her, she lets out a low, tormented sound that is both relief and frustration.  His hands are strong and agile but not enough to soothe her.  Her nails dig into his shoulder, scrape down his arm.  

“Katara,” he murmurs, his voice husky with desire, “you’re so - ” he is too lost in the way she feels to finish this thought. The words stumble inside him.  His tongue slides across his lower lip.

“I want you,” she whispers.  She pushes her hand between them to touch him.  The response is instinctive, an undulation of his hips that pushes him further into the invitation of her hand.  He is so hard, pressed against her palm.  Immediately she answers the urge to squeeze, to slide her fingers from the base of his erection up. He moans against her lips as she strokes him, the sound helpless with longing.    The answering throb between her legs is dull and heavy.

They fumble with the last of her clothing together, natural grace defeated by a haze of hormones and need. Katara lifts her hips off the bed and Aang hooks his fingers in the waistband of her underwear. He pulls them down, the rough strength of his hands sliding along her hips, down her thighs.  

There is no modesty about the way she parts her legs again and he moves readily between them, leaning into her.  He guides himself inside her, the two of them surrendering to each other.  The familiar heaviness of him fills her and her breath catches in her chest.  She closes her eyes, tilting her head back for his first thrusts. He buries his face in her neck to smother a moan.   

“I _missed_ you,” he says.  His hands sink into the bed beside her when he pushes himself up to look down at her face. His eyes travel down her body, hand following behind.  There is almost as much lust in his touch as there is in his dark eyes.  His palm skims across her ribs. She watches him take in the sight of her skin, dark in the quivering shadow of the candlelight and beneath his pale fingers.  Aang rises onto his knees, slides his hands along the underside of her thighs.  They catch in the pits of her knees, warm and damp with sweat. His gaze moves across her breasts, her hips.  By the time his focus reaches the place where their bodies meet, he is holding his breath.  He withdraws, slides back inside her and empties his lungs with a weak groan. The way he watches as she engulfs him sends a rush of primal satisfaction through her.  She rolls her hips toward him, stretches her arms over her head. Her eyes flutter closed as her hands tense, nails scraping the headboard.  He lowers himself onto his arms to whisper to her.

“I missed you _so_ much.”    

Katara cannot not bring herself to answer, as each foray he makes into her body seems to coil her voice tighter and tighter in her throat. She settles for hooking her legs around his, heels digging into his thighs to draw him closer.  He can barely pull out of her, she is holding him so tightly, and his thrusts are abbreviated. They feel like his breaths, mirroring the pants that hitch in his chest.  She cups his face and cannot resist raking her nails through the wiry, unfamiliar hair along his jaw.  

"Harder,” she purrs into their kiss, and the undercurrent of a moan is not accidental.   

He doesn’t obey exactly, just grasps her hips and shifts her to the angle he knows she wants. He slides deeper, almost too deep, and the wave of her desire breaks against him. It rolls through her and pushes a cry into her throat. She freezes the sound before it can spill past her lips.  Instead a whimper slips out, soft and pleading.  This does to him what her whispered command did not.  

The bed springs squeak beneath them as he drives into her and it is all she can do not to gasp his name, to beg and urge him on.  Instead she presses the back of her hand to her open mouth to silence herself while the heat crests inside her, the blood rushing in her ears blotting out everything else.  Katara locks one of her legs around his waist, their sweaty skin pressed together.  She tenses under and around him, clenching the pillow under her head as the cascade of her orgasm overtakes her.  The sheets are damp beneath her when her back arches off of the bed, and Aang moans her name.  His fingers are tight on her hips.  The thoughtless dig of his nails into her skin is the surest evidence of his loss of control.  She can feel the pulse of his climax inside her, his rhythm faltering into choppy desperation.    

He keeps moving, slowly, sending indulgent little ripples of pleasure through her.  Sagging back into the bed, she lets her leg drop off of him.  He brushes her hair back and runs his thumb along her cheek.

“I’m _so_ glad you’re home,” she murmurs in weak relief.  He chuckles and stills his hips so he can focus on kissing her, though their efforts are lazy, heavy with contentment.  She gives a low hum of satisfaction when he runs his fingers through her hair.      

“Me, too,” he agrees.  He pulls slowly out of her and she sighs.  While he sits back on his heels, she leans over the edge of the bed to open the drawer of the nightstand, retrieving a towel to clean them both up with.  They are quiet for a moment, watching each other.    

A tiny hiccup comes from across the room and Aang twists around to look in the direction of Bumi’s crib.  When he turns back to Katara, she smirks up at him.

“You want to go get him, don’t you?”

His smile is embarrassed but still warm.  “Yeah.  Do you mind?”

She glances toward the window, at the moon bright in the sky, then turns her attention to tracking down her underwear.

“He’s been waking up about now lately, anyway.  He’ll be happy you’re home.  He missed you.”

His eyes light up.  “Really? I was wondering if he would even notice I was gone.”   

Aang climbs out of bed and goes to retrieve a pair of shorts from the dresser.  Having finally located her own underwear, she watches him pull his on without looking.  His focus has already settled on the tiny shape, shifting fitfully in the dark corner of the room.  He pads over in silence and bends down to scoop up their son, who has started to make the tiny noises that herald tears.  Katara stretches out on her side of the bed to make room for him.  

“Hey, Boom,” he murmurs as the baby curls into his chest.  Aang rubs his back as he returns to the bed, settling in beside her.  He lays Bumi between them and he scrunches his face in groggy protest.  Aang smiles down at him, running his fingers through his downy hair.  

Perhaps aware of the sound of his father’s voice, or that the hands stroking his head are larger, Bumi opens his eyes and scowls up at them.  It takes a moment for him to focus and when he looks up at Aang his eyes widen in surprise before his chin begins trembling.

“Uh oh,” Katara warns.

“Oh, oh!” Aang breathes, realizing, “Hey, buddy! It’s me.” He lays on his side and scoots down until they are at eye level.  “I didn’t even think of you not recognizing me.  I’m sorry, kiddo.”

Bumi blinks, his windup to cry cut short by the familiar voice.  He reaches over to touch his face, fortunately unable to get a grip on the short hairs, despite his best efforts. He squeals and gives his father a tiny, enthusiastic smack on the cheek, instead.  Katara smiles in recognition as she watches Aang envisioning the trials of his patience looming before him.  He heaves a resigned sigh.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “that’s going to be a problem in about a week.”   


End file.
